


Crescendo

by QWERTYouAndMe



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Prose Poem, post death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 09:33:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16951515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QWERTYouAndMe/pseuds/QWERTYouAndMe
Summary: It was just them left.





	Crescendo

It was just them left. 

They had to answer the questions; they had to endure the pitiful looks; they had to stay quiet as people scattered slander and broad assumptions; as people spread lies upon lies upon lies. They had to pick up the pieces that were left behind. 

But they had each other; no matter what happened, they had each other. A hand to hold under the table, a gentle word whispered before falling asleep, a strong pair of arms to fall into after a long day. 

It was just them left, in the back of the public house, reminiscing over drinks that would warm their insides before stepping out into the cold. It was just them, left listening to the radio crackle in that bare white room, cringing at every note of glorious falsetto. It was just them left, in the bar with the thousand eyes, sloughing off the implications of the bated breath and the quiet whispers. It was just them left in the risky places with the poisonous, sharp edges and the red, rusty doors and the music coming out too familiar, too painful, too loud - too much everywhere; unlimited something. They didn’t go back to the places like that. 

His ghost clattered marvelously through every leather-bound crowd by their sides, and every look of surprise, every knowing glance, every ‘I told you so’ mouthed behind their backs and between others’ kisses, was worth it. Every nonsense word slurred between back-street whispers and subtle forgettings was a forest fire: every mention of his name made the windows shake and scream. Every freak and weirdo who didn’t belong screaming together at the back of the room; only, the room had no end; there was no back of the room because it went on forever. Twenty, thirty, fifty years, and the echoes of their majesty still hung on the frantic London street corners, and every hairstyle and bad fashion choice since then lived on and on and on in the framed pictures with the broken glass.

It was just them left in the dark; in the rooms with the golden walls, between the breathless kisses and every errant hand pushed into backlit curls - between every comfortable whisper, every lazy sunday spent unconscious in the back rooms of silent studios, every movement captured perfectly by the rustle of stiff sheets. It was just them left with the papercuts on their fingers, hands immersed in the cold side of the pillow, drowning in each other, pressed so tight together in that twin sized bed, the need to belong creeping up their throats and burning them alive. It was just them left, tense and angry with the noise of another weekend, throats raw from screaming truths at the man with the wide eyes on the television. It was just them left, back to back, unreal, barely touching, atoms apart. It was just them and a stranger and harsh, melancholy quiet where there should be noise. 

It was just them left now, but despite it all, they were still there.


End file.
